


Pulling on a Loose Thread

by TongueTripper



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 01:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15086369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TongueTripper/pseuds/TongueTripper
Summary: These are one shots and ramblings of stories about the MCU, and Clintasha in particular.





	Pulling on a Loose Thread

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave constructive criticism. I'm not sure how many plot bunnies are running free.  
> Wikipedia is my resource provider.  
> Non-beta'd (anyone want to beta?) and a really rough draft.

Hawkeye couldn’t help but smirk from his position on the rooftop. He watched as his mark had deftly maneuvered her way into the restaurant, by attaching herself to the a group that had a party reservation. She had appeared only a second or two before the large entourage arrived in their sleek Mercedes. During her approach she had been able to analyze the group, assess the members, and strategically altered her pace to put her in a direct course with the man that would be the easiest to manipulate with her flirtations. The leader of the group would have welcomed her attention, and let her join their group without a second thought. But he would not have been easily dismissed in the bustle of the revelry. His possessive stance and his physicality signaled he would have been much more aggressive when she begged off to visit the ladies room. He would have probably pawed at her gropingly the way he did with the unsuspecting waitress rounding the corner. The inevitable scene would have drawn attention that the woman would not have wanted.

Instead, she sauntered up to the man three back in the group. With his broad shoulders, five o’clock shadow and dull gaze, it took an extra bit of coaxing on the woman’s part. She rested her hand lightly on his arm, and Clint could see her lean in imperceptibly. With a lick of her lips and an arched brow she appeared to ask him a conspiratorial question. He gave what was most likely a bit a grunt and shrugged his shoulders in response. She pressed closer to him and tilted her head in a coyish chuckle (he doubted she would giggle). The corners of the man’s mouth crinkled in what would pass for a smile and he shuffled slightly to the side to make room for her next to him. He was dense, Clint could tell from here, probably causing her to ply a bit more effort into the exchanged than would be desired, but the submissive role in the pecking order of the group meant that he would offer no argument when she stepped away in the direction of the bathroom.

With a puff of air, Clint rolled his prone body away from the ledge. She was good, he damn well knew. The restaurant was by reservation only establishment. Her name would neither be recorded on the guest log, nor recalled by the staff. She anonymously gained access to the building. He knew that either her pickpocket skills or hacking skills would get her past the security to reach the hotel elevators and the suites above.

That was her mission. He knew her target, although who sent her and why were questions not yet answered. He knew however, that what she was sent to do was murder. She was the black widow after all.

***

Her mission was clear. Eliminate the target. 

She did not ask why because in the Red Room, you do not question your orders. The Red Room does not tolerate insubordination. She had been pulled from deep cover though, suddenly and without ceremony. She had been cultivating a potentially lucrative relationship with the son of a Russian oligarch turned politician. His campaign of against the Kremlin and democratic sympathies towards the People’s Freedom Party was causing headaches for the government. However they signaled that she should neutralize the politician’s son as expediently as possible and immediately begin a new mission. They calculated finding his young virile son in a coma in a hospital in Minsk would be enough to withdraw his future campaigns. 

Her new mission would not require deep cover. Find Sergei Vasiylev and eliminate him. She was given limited intel during the briefing, and that meant she had even fewer parameters and restraints. The only restraint was time. She had to rely on her own wit and skill to accomplish the objective.

However, the intelligence report did reveal bits and pieces that she could use. The target had stolen something that belonged to the Red Room and was going to sell it to an Avtoritet of the Georgian Bratva, Mikhail Orlov. Greed was a grand motivator. She could easily track down a man who thought he was entitled to things that weren’t his. Time was the factor and she had to move quickly. It didn’t take much work on her part to pick up the rumors from the local working girls about increased activity among particular clientele with money to spend and rough tastes. From there she was able to gather information about the location and the security from the shestyorkas. 

She had to move quickly, which was dangerous. She was reacting, and it took away some of her expertise. She didn’t have time to cover her tracks the way she usually liked to. She didn’t have time to cultivate her contacts, using them as middle men, limiting her exposure. She had to follow the leads herself, and had direct contact with the informants.

The sooner this was over, the better, she thought. 

***

Clint grunted as he checked his gear. He flexed shoulders, muscles stiff from the hours of laying on the rooftop. He knew this mission had been a punishment as much a Hail Mary play. The case file had been slim and Clint could tell that even Coulson questioned the credibility of the accounts. Alleged encounters with the Black Widow dating back to the founding days of S.H.E.I.L.D. He knew that legendary Peggy Carter was never known to embellish and was the stalwart of dry British professionalism, but he couldn’t help but make a crack about 70 year old operatives darting around Europe luring agents to their dooms.

Coulson stifled a cough, and raising his hand to straighten the knot of his tie, while glancing in Clint’s direction.

“Oh, come on. I mean look right here, there is the assassination of Bruno Busic in France attributed to Black Widow and less than 2 hours later a blurry picture of a “confirmed sighting” of the Black Widow in Cyprus by a different agent. In 1978. Nineteen-seventy-eight. This is ridiculous. Might as well have S.H.I.E.L.D. looking for the boogeyman or a futzin Yeti.”

Fury turned his gaze on the Agent, and in that moment Clint knew he had stepped in a shit storm of epic proportions.

An hour later, Coulson slid the slim file on Clint’s desk, and handed him an oddly shaped wrapped gift. He gave a non-threatening smile to the archer. 

“Fury said that as the poster child for lost causes, this is the perfect assignment for you.”

Clint swiveled in his chair and groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. “The information in this is just the hallucinations of overworked agents and the wet dreams of newbie field agents.”

Coulson shrugged. “When I heard about you, Fury said something, that wasn’t too far off from that mark.” He sighed and thumbed through the file. “You know, Sitwell would be a good resource to tap. In my day, we would hunt down celebrities for signatures, and your generation seems more likely to post a picture or blog. I’ve heard the like this thing called My Spot or something.” He shook his head imperceptibly. He set the open file on Clint’s desk and stood up. “He might be able to do some digital leg-work on this case.”

He gave Clint a squeeze on the shoulder, “Good luck, you’re going to need it,” he said before walking away.

Clint groaned again, and looked at the file. There was a grainy picture of a shapely woman walking down a distinctly London street. She was small, petite, her face hidden in shadow with long hair blowing over her shoulder. She had a long coat, like a trench coat but the fancy ones that women wear, Clint thought. Her legs had the opacity that comes with dancers tights. Beneath the picture was captioned: Black Widow – Confirmed sighting. Royal Opera House. The photo was only a few years old, and he noted the agent that took it was Agent Coulson.

Of course. Coulson enjoyed the theater and the orchestras. He had made a sighting, that’s why he didn’t object when Fury had named Clint acting agent on the case. He thought Coulson would have argued that it was a waste of resources and Clint could be doing something more productive. More useful. He felt like an idiot. He grabbed the wrapped package. He peeled back the paper to reveal a purple colored thermos container with the label YETI written on the side. Inside was a neatly folded note.

“The answers that we get are never the answers that we expect.”

Clint leaned forward and picked up the desk phone, he paused a moment and then punched in Sitwell’s extension.


End file.
